


Couldn't be helped

by antennapedia



Series: Second Life [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Multi, Sex Pollen, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antennapedia/pseuds/antennapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker's second life aboard the TARDIS isn't all about smashing oppressive states. Sometimes it's about sex pollen in canisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't be helped

The canister rolled to a halt at their feet, hissing. Malcolm kicked it away immediately and finished his assigned job of launching the escape pods, the pods with all the refugees on them. They'd follow the homing beacons to the planet below; mission accomplished. Lives saved.

He wiped sweat from his forehead. Fucking close one. Clara and that old coot the Doctor came running around the bend toward him. He brushed imaginary lint from his cuffs. "They're off," he said.

"Reactor blown," the Doctor said. "We have about three minutes to get out."

"What's that smell?" Clara said. She sniffed, sniffed again more deeply.

"What smell?" The old coot and Malcolm were both puzzled. "Seriously? You can't smell it? It's kinda nice and wow, really nice."

Malcolm sniffed again. Nothing.

"Wow," Clara said. "You both look amazing right now. My two heroes."

She was looking at him in a way that made him hard almost instantly. Malcolm moved in on her and got in a surreptitious grope of her tits. "You look fucking delectable yourself, darling."

"Clara!" the Doctor said. "Stop breathing-- Oh, bugger. Where is it? The gas bomb, you twit!"

Malcolm got his hand out of Clara's shirt and pointed in the direction he'd kicked the thing. The thing that he was now beginning to suspect hadn't been a dud.

The Doctor pulled his jumper up over the bottom of his face. "Get Clara back to the TARDIS before you're incapacitated," he said, and ran for it.

Malcolm scooped up Clara, ignored the way she started unbuttoning his shirt, and ran for the TARDIS.

Inside, all three inside, levers pulled home, into the Vortex, away from the foundering spaceship. Malcolm breathed deep, but now he knew it for certain: something wasn't right. It wasn't normal that he'd feel this way in the present of the Old Coot, the man who looked like a long-lost relative with the gray hair and the flashy coat. He wanted to fuck Clara about as often as he saw her, so that was normal, but he managed to keep it in his trousers when they were having adventures with the Coot, or when she'd shagged his brains out recently. This qualified as _adventures_ , which meant that the raging erection in his trousers was not on.

The rager in his trousers? How about the one in the Coot's trousers? That was something impressive. Malcolm looked, and licked his lips. Dimly in the back of his mind he was aware that this wasn't a usual reaction for him. He was ninety percent a ladies man, and that odd ten percent was not something that he expressed anywhere other than in the privacy of his own head.

Whatever the fuck that gas was, it was doing it to all three of them. Malcolm knew that look in Clara's eye, that lip-biting thing she did when she was unbearably horny. And she was horny, and she was beautiful, and she couldn't keep her hands off either of them.

"Fuck," he said.

"That's the idea," the Doctor said, almost grimly, and he dragged them all out of the console room. Down the corridor and into a bedroom, not one Malcolm had seen before. Huge bed, sinful sheets, nightstand on the side with drawers full of lube and toys. Orgy room. That sly old coot. That sly old horny devil, who apparently wanted Clara as much as he did. She liked both of them; they'd both come to terms with that already. But now the question was paramount: which one did she like more?

They had just begun to argue about which one of them deserved to make love to her first when Clara slapped them both and silenced them.

"Both of you at once," she said.

Malcolm's eyes went wide. "But that means--"

"I want it," she said. "Now. Before I explode."

Her jaw was set, and Malcolm knew that look all too well. It was the look that said slick up laddie and prepare to do something new. He met the Coot's eye and nodded. He'd man up and take her from behind. Probably the old man wasn't up for it. Malcolm grinned.

Lube on his stiff prick, lots and lots of thick lube. More on his fingers. The Coot had run ahead of him here, and had Clara straddling his lap. She was grinding over him already, fucking him into next week. Not fair. The Coot eased back against the headboard and got Clara's legs spread wide. Malcolm snugged himself up behind.

"Yeah?" he said into Clara's ear.

"Yeah," she said.

He worked his thumb into her first, holding himself off God only knew how. Didn't want to hurt her. She opened up for him immediately, made the most lovely noises for him. She'd done it before, or maybe it was the gas. Who knew? Probably the Coot. Malcolm took himself in hand and nudged up against her. Pushed. Entered her. Her arse. He was taking her _arse_ , oh fucking fuck him. Fucking fuck _her_. Tight, tight all the way in. He went as slowly as he could, because he could feel Clara trembling under him. He crooned to her, asked her over and over if she was okay. She was making the most amazing sounds. And the Coot was crooning to her too, reassuring her, telling her how good she felt.

The strangest thing was that he could feel the Coot inside her too, moving with him.

"Fucking fuck fuck fuck," he said. The Coot rolled his eyes at him, which Malcolm couldn't help but see because his face was inches away.

"Unimaginative," the Coot said.

"Yeah? You got a better description for it?"

"Shut up," Clara said. "Shut up. Just-- This is-- God. I can't."

Malcolm knew what she meant. So did the Coot. They were united on the one topic of Clara. Well, also on the topics of smashing oppressive states and liberating the working class, but that went without saying.

"You're fucking good-looking for an old coot," he said to the alien whose hands were on his girlfriend's hips.

"You're intelligent for a foul-mouthed pudding brain," the alien said to him in that disturbingly improbable Glasgow accent, and kissed him. Well, wasn't that a delight, alien male tongue in his mouth, alien cock up his girlfriend's twat while he was up her arse, both of them fucking her at once, both making her make the most amazing sounds. Clara, Clara, Clara. The light of his life, the light of the Coot's life, the salvation of the both of them. Snogging another man, stubble rubbing against stubble, fuck him which one of them was groaning like that? He couldn't fucking tell the difference any more.

Malcolm reached around to find Clara's clit. The Coot's fingers were already there. Well, they could share. They could both bring her off. They were moving together inside her, after all, in synchrony, slowly, tenderly. She wasn't going to last long. He could hear in in the way her breathing had gone harsh.

"Her nipples," said the Coot.

"Good fuckin' idea," Malcolm said, and he got his messy fingers on them, pinched the way Clara liked. That was what she'd been needing, because her moaning shifted, went ragged. She was going to come in another moment. There it was, there she was. She was coming, shuddering between them, squeezing him in a way that Malcolm couldn't deal with. In her arse, he thought, he was going to come in her _arse_ , and it was so fucking filthy a thought that it was enough, he was gone, he was spending himself.

He lifted his face from where he'd buried it in her shoulder. He'd come, she'd come. Had the old man?

"You good?" he said, and the Coot nodded. His face was red and sweaty, and he had a creamy satisfied look in his eyes that Malcolm just fucking knew was the mirror of the one on his own face. Three fucking simultaneous orgasms. How often did that happen?

Malcolm eased himself free of Clara's body and helped the old coot stretch her out on the bed between them. Her orgasm had been one for the record books, it seemed. She was wrecked, utterly wrecked and limp, capable of not much more than pulling them both down next to her.

"What the fuck was that?" he said, looking over her gloriously naked body at the Coot.

"Aphrodisiac," the Doctor said. "Multi-species drug. Not something we could have resisted after that first lungful."

"Oh," Malcolm said. "Right. Couldn't be helped. Not responsible for our actions."

"Yeah."

Malcolm was coming down from it, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret what had just happened. "Think she'll want to do it again?" he asked, eyebrow cocked.

"God, I hope so," said the Doctor, and Malcolm snickered.


End file.
